FIC: Behind The Shield (STXI, Big Bang, Gen, PG-13) Act 2 (2/4)

[mrwubbles]

Title:Behind The Shield
Author:Yuma aka mrwubbles
Betas:myfieldnotes and penfold_x
Artist:squarededdie
Fanmixer:epershand
Series: ST XI
Character(s):Jim Kirk, Leonard McCoy
Rating:PG-13
Word Count:38,000+
Warnings: (if applicable) strong language
Summary: GEN - F.B.I. Special Agent Leonard McCoy of the White Collar Division wants to catch the Dutchman. But can the infamous James Kirk, a reformed young con artist, really help him? Or is this one big con, too? A revisit of White Collar's pilot episode, Star Trek Reboot style.

Previous Parts: Master Post| Teaser| Act 1 (1/2)| Act 1 (2/2)| Act 2 (1/4)

Act 2 (2/4)
Salvation Army Thrift, West St, New York City

McCoy hadn't been lying.

Thrift stores were usually the best places Jim found to get what he needed and to do what needed to be done. Oddly he felt a strange kinship with the stuff in thrift stores. His fingers running over the odd hideously "Italian" painted plate or snowglobe from Vale. All these things tossed away without a backward glance but still maybe something of value amidst it all if someone just bothered looking closer.

Sam had always looked at thrift stores with disdain. He said he was tired of always getting the leftovers from other people's lives. Eddy tended to agree, wanting newer, better, things. And if it meant cashing in the occasional forged Monet or Bellini, so that someone who had plenty of cash tossed some of it aside on their worthless junk rather than another souvenir of their trip to Bali, or Paris, or Geneva, stuff that was going to be just sent away to a thrift store eventually anyway, then so be it.

Jim wandered over to the stacks of clothes and listlessly poked through the offerings. Too many holes, too faded, too smelly, way too 80's. He noted what could be salvageable, what couldn't. He tried to think nothing of the fact that he looked up a few times, a question for Sam and Eddy at the tip of his tongue.

"I've come to donate these."

Jim glanced over to the register. The bored looking teenager flipped through a stack. The gentleman standing in front of her wore a tiny smile on his lightly lined face. Dark hair, graying at the temples, dressed in a tailored suit, the lithe athletic built man appeared out of place among the dusty racks.

"Old suits," the clerk commented with a wrinkle of her nose. She twirled a finger on a white braid that hung down over dyed black hair.

"Yes," the man said, sounding more amused than offended, "they are."

As Jim drew closer, he noted the man was in maybe his early fifties—definitely not old enough to have worn the style of suits on the counter—resting his weight on top of a sleek ebony cane. Not just decorative then.

"Those are fantastic," Jim blurted out when he caught sight of the blue gray jacket's notched collar.

Piercing blue eyes swiveled to him. They narrowed slightly and Jim found himself fighting the urge to fidget.

After a beat, after whatever the man saw, he smiled briefly. He gave Jim an abbreviated nod. "Belonged to my late father. He had great taste in clothes." He shrugged.

Jim studied the jackets. He couldn't imagine ever having this much stuff from his father. All he had was a blurred photo that Sam kept in his wallet. It was the only thing left after the plane crash. Their mom had taken all the rest away, as if holding the box of things could give her back her husband. When they didn't, she'd hidden them all, and tried to replace the pain with Frank. That didn't work.

"Want to give them a try?" the man said quietly, his eyes keen on his face. He nodded towards the top one.

It was a good weight in his hands. The seams were tiny, even and clearly handmade. Jim hesitantly flipped the collar to the label on the dark blue jacket and whistled. "This is a Devore."

"Huh?" the clerk said. She scrunched her face at the clothing. Black painted fingernails picked at another to look at its label. "De-what?"

The older man chuckled. "Kids these days don't know about Devore." He gestured towards the jacket Jim slipped on carefully. "My father won that one from Sy himself."

"Won it?"

"He beat him at a back door draw."

"Your father played poker with Sy Devore?" Jim squeaked. Okay, that wasn't cool. Jim hastily cleared his throat.

The man just shrugged again.

Dazed, Jim didn't realize he was toying with one of the hats until he flipped it unto his head.

"I'm glad to see someone can appreciate these." The man chuckled as he watched Jim try another jacket. "I was hoping someone would. I've got a whole closet full of them."

Jim stilled. "A whole closet full of Devore?"

The clerk looked between Jim and the other man. "Is that like vintage and stuff?"

Jim shook his head ruefully and exchanged an eye roll with the man.

--

It had turned into a pleasant chat that ended too briefly for Jim. Jim regretfully bade the man goodbye, promising to be back in the thrift store the next day if possible. Especially if there was a closet full of Devore! He bought the dark blue suit—ridiculously priced because the clerk still couldn't appreciate it—and he went back going through the slim offerings. Everything else dulled in comparison. Jim figured he would be here until closing before he could find anything else.

But then he noticed the two men peeling away from the racks as soon as the man with the cane left. Jim frowned, tracking them as they stepped out, their stride quickening as soon as they were outside. He wavered from staying or following until he saw the telltale bulge tucked in the back waistband of one of them.

Crap.

Jim trailed behind the two men who were hanging back behind the man with the cane. He set his jaw as he saw them draw closer once they reached a more deserted spot crossing between two buildings and two more men approached from the opposite direction. He had a bad feeling about this. He started to trot over when they surrounded the older man.

"Hey, hey!" Jim called out, one arm up in a wave as he jogged over. He made a point to elbow through them to stand by the man's side. The other merely looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "I wanted to ask you something." Jim touched the man by the elbow to lead him back towards the corner. For some reason, he got an amused look from him.

"We were talking to him," one of the Neanderthals growled.

Jim looked at them up and down before he stepped in front of the man. "Didn't look like it was much of a conversation."

The first guy with his beady eyes and thin penciled in looking goatee scowled. "Hey, you better mind your manners."

Jim snorted. He patted One on the arm. "Oh relax, cupcake, it was a joke."

Neanderthal Two snarled, oddly fitting for his bulldog face. "Kinda rude to be interrupting."

Jim's shoulders lifted. "Kinda rude to be insulting his intelligence."

'Cupcake' as Jim decided he should be, scrubbed a hand across his shaven head and spat to the side. Gross. He stepped into Jim's personal space and jabbed a thumb on Jim's chest.

"Maybe you can't count, asshole, but there's four of us and one of you."

Jim smirked. He patted Cupcake on his chest like he was a big dog. "So get two more guys and then it'll be an even fight."

The four glowered.

Sam always did say he should think before he opened his damn mouth.

Cupcake's swing came out of the corner of his eye. Jim shoved the man with the cane behind him, ducked and rammed a fist into Cupcake's face. Avoiding a punch, he kicked Goon Number Three's kneecap. It didn't pop—he wasn't positioned right to apply the right amount of force—but Jim knew it should still hurt like a bitch. He grabbed the gun away from the man's waist band and in probably the stupidest move he'd ever done and threw it away clip and all. And then the brawl was seriously on as Goon Number Two tried to plow into him.

He heard flesh on flesh behind him. Jim's lips curled back, tightened his fists.

Meaty arms looped around his shoulders, jerking his arms back. Sour breath scalded the back of his neck. A body pressed too close to his back.

"I got him! I go—"

Heartbeat thundering in his ears, Jim snapped his head back, heard a crack as skull met cartilage. His head spun from impact and the sidewalk in front of him lurched sickeningly.

Before the arms completely let go, Jim kicked both feet out hitting Number Three in the solar plexus. He was about to scream for Sam, when a fist caught him low in the back and drove him to his knees.

"Have to be a damn hero, huh?"

A fist snapped his head to the side. He made a grab for the next fist but ended up getting slammed into his side from behind crashing into pavement. He caught the gleam of a blade flicking open.

"Let's see if it says 'hero' on the inside too—urk!"

Fuzzily, Jim saw a thin black cane cutting across the air, catching Goon Number Three by the throat. Three gurgled, staggering back into Cupcake's prone body and dropping next to him like a sack of potatoes.

Jim tripped the fourth man as he felt the thug charge past him. He couldn't see out of the swelling of his eye now but he heard Goon Number Two squealing as the cane whistled in the air and landed with a crunch.

"You broke it. You 'ucking broke it," Two blubbered.

"You might want to leave before you break the other arm too," replied a mild voice.

Blearily, Jim watched the would-be muggers limp up to their feet. He tensed when one of them turned around but the cane landed on the sidewalk, its steel tip loud on the concrete. Cursing, groaning, they staggered off supporting each other.

Jim peered up at the man from the thrift store. The other eyed him with an unreadable expression.

"Most people would just call 911 or walk away."

Jim shrugged, hissed and tried to sit up straighter. Yeah, that hurt. He searched around. Great, he'd left the suit in the store. "Didn't think four against one was fair."

"Funny, I would have said the same thing for you." An unexpected hand extended. Jim blinked at it before grabbing it, letting the other man haul him up.

"You're pretty good with that cane there," Jim managed. He wiped his thumb at the corner of his bleeding mouth.

Amusement crinkled the eyes and the older man tipped his head, accepting the compliment. "You seem to be pretty good at pissing people off."

Jim grinned bloodily. "Hey, you have a closet of Devore. I wasn't going to lose that."

A small smile twitched.

Jim tried to smile again but he grimaced instead.

"You may need a doctor." Frowning, the older man examined Jim's face. "Or a hospital."

"No hospitals," Jim mumbled.

The cane tip snagged the hem of his pants, revealing the anklet. "I'm assuming that's the reason why."

Jim glanced over, but the other man only gazed back with mild curiosity.

"Uh…it probably wouldn't be a good idea," Jim admitted. He winced as he shifted weight from one foot to another. "Considering I just got out today."

Again, the only reaction the other gave was an eyebrow. Fuzzily, Jim wondered if the guy was related to McCoy.

"No," the other agreed easily, "It probably wouldn't be good. Where are you staying?" His frown darkened when Jim told him. "That won't do." He shook his head and pulled out his cell phone.

"What are you doing?" Jim asked warily.

"Number One," the other ignored Jim as he spoke into his phone. "Yes, yes, I know. I'm fine but I think I would like you to bring out the car to Barrows to pick me and a friend up."

Jim narrowed his eyes as he listened to the other give directions.

"I only have a two mile radius," Jim said when the other was done.

There was a brief smile. "That's fine."

"I was taught never to get into a car with strangers." Actually, he was taught how to jump out of a moving car. Same thing.

"Christopher Pike." The hand extended was freshly scraped across the knuckles.

Jim shook it. The firm grip impressed him. Pike stared at him expectantly. Jim chuckled awkwardly. Oh yeah.

"James Kirk." Jim paused. "Jim." He whistled when a Bentley rolled up to them, a lot sooner than he thought. "You live nearby?"

Pike offered another smile, his eyes twinkling as if he knew a secret. "Not far."

--

Corner of West and Barrow Street, New York City

Leonard trudged up the steps to the questionable hotel.

"Hey," he mumbled. "I'm here for Kirk, room eleven."

The ping pong paddle was absent today, but the clerk was now preoccupied with a magazine. He looked up. "Kirk? Oh yeah, yeah, ol' Snake Eyes. Nice Guy." He grunted as he twisted to the cubbyholes to grab a folded piece of paper. "Left ya a note."

"He left me a…note?"

Dear Bones,
I have moved 1.6 miles
87 Riverside Dr.
XOXO
Jim

"What the hell?"

--

87 Riverside Dr, New York City

"You've got to be kidding me."

Leonard checked the address again. Then, he checked the street sign. But both times, it was still the same ornate, stone mansion.

It looked like it could just as easily be located in the highly coveted CPW with its marble brick facades, green fish scale roofing and copper cresting. He had to check once more to see if the word 'Trump' was branded anywhere.

People jogging by were giving him funny looks. Leonard tugged at his trench coat—standing here made him feel frumpy—and dashed across the street and up the steps, still feeling like he needed to check his car's GPS again. Sulu and Chekov were usually better with driving directions.

A maid—what the hell—opened the iron door by the second knock.

Leonard blinked at the older woman, who stared back at him with polite curiosity.

"I…I think I have the wrong address," Leonard fumbled. He smoothed out the note in his fist to show her. To his confusion, she merely smiled.

"You must be Leonard," a voice said from behind her. The maid stepped aside to let him in.

It was disconcerting to find himself at a loss for words again so soon. The last thing he expected was to see a man standing by the foot of a mahogany staircase, looking like he was accustomed to people saluting him. Leonard fought the urge to snap into attention. He was F.B.I., not a solder, damn it.

"I'm looking for Jim Kirk?"

There was a crooked smirk on the man's face as he nodded towards the top.

--

Leonard wasn't expecting the terrace.

Or the goddamn view of Manhattan sprawled out below. He stood there by the French doors and blinked.

"You're early."

Kirk peered from behind a copy of the Wall Street Journal. He grinned as he refolded the paper and set it on the table, revealing the maroon robe and matching pajamas he was wearing.

Leonard's mouth snapped shut. He gave himself a mental shake. "We're chasing a lead at the airport. We got a hit on Snow White."

"Snow White..." Kirk perked up, sitting straighter, "the phrase you decoded from a suspected Dutchman communiqué from Barcelona."

"I'm not even going to ask how you knew that." Leonard waved vaguely at the open-aired surroundings. "Uh…see you moved."

"Yeah, it's nicer than the other place, don't you think?

It grated to see Kirk smile so cheekily at him. Leonard looked away and squinted at the carved railing that stared across some structure Leonard was pretty sure was a stop on every Big Apple bus tour. There was even a pair of griffins climbing up on a stone block, glaring at the skyline.

"Yeah," Leonard muttered, "I don't remember the other place having a view." He narrowed his eyes at Kirk.

Kirk held up his hands in an 'I surrender' gesture. "I went to the thrift store like you suggested, and Chris—"

"We met."

"Was donating his dad's clothes. We hit it off—"

"You mean that literally?" Leonard interrupted. He pointed to Kirk's face. "'Cause I'm pretty sure when you left prison yesterday, you didn't have a busted lip."

Kirk winced. He cupped his jaw. "Some local color. New York City's still a dangerous kind of town."

"I'll say. I haven't seen this much color even in an art gallery." Leonard came over and tipped Kirk's chin up, turning him left and right. At Kirk's startled wide-eyed look, Leonard cleared his throat and dropped his hand.

"Some habits die hard," Kirk quipped. He grinned, inadvertently reopening the cut on his lower lip. "Besides they started it."

"You're an idiot." Leonard threw a linen napkin at him. Kirk dabbed it on the cut before resorting to sucking on his lower lip. Leonard shook his head. "Anything broken?"

An inscrutable smile flashed. "Depends on who you're asking. No. Just banged up a bit. But on them…" He shrugged.

"I don't want to know." Leonard did a quick check of his pupils, shading and unshading them. "Any nausea? Dizziness?" He waited for the negative response, before he stepped back. He folded his arms in front of him.

"The deal was for you to help us, not to become a genius repeat offender—"

"He was being mugged," Kirk said abruptly, all joviality gone. "With guns. What was I supposed to do? Besides you know how I feel about that."

"Yeah." Leonard just didn't know why. And Leonard had always suspected if he looked too far down that line he wouldn't like what he found. He shoved his hands into his coat and scrutinized Kirk. "Muggers?"

Kirk cast his eyes skyward. "Yeah?" He sucked on his cut lower lip. "Pretty common in New York, you know."

"Funny." Leonard waved at Kirk. "So this wasn't some friend—"

"Coming to tell me 'Welcome back'?" Kirk's mouth twisted but a wince aborted whatever face he was going to make. He gingerly prodded the discoloring on his chin. "No, didn't know them and they didn't know me."

Actually, Leonard wanted to ask if it was one of Chris's friends. He studied Kirk. "So…you two hit it off, huh? He didn't try to…"

Kirk stared at him blankly. "Jesus, Bones. We just drank coffee and talked about history. The big crime heists of the 50's and 60's. It wasn't like that."

"Sorry. It's just…" How did you say that even though you were willing to leave someone in a crack den of a hotel you still didn't want someone taking advantage of them? Christ, this was getting complicated. "Sorry, So decent guy, huh?"

"Yeah. He had an extra guest room..." Kirk paused, his brow furrowing. "You said if I find a nice place for the same price, I should take it."

Leonard sighed. He had said that, hadn't he? He studied the terrace. He suppose he could always run a background check on the guy. "All this for seven hundred?" he asked skeptically. "That's it?"

Kirk appeared annoyed at the question but in typical Jim Kirk fashion, he shrugged it off. "I do have to help out around the place."

Leonard snorted. "Oh, sure, feed the dog—"

"Only when they're here. His friend drops them off from time to time."

Leonard's mouth tugged at the corners. "So he's got you dog-sitting?"

"Yeah, wash the Jag, watch his niece from time to time."

"Oh ho, he's got you babysitting, too?"

"A little life guard duty. That sort of thing." Kirk beamed and glanced behind him as a slim, tall redhead slinked up to them. She was a show stopper. Her green eyes twinkled at Leonard as she shrugged into a sheer, white robe that hung down to her calves over her swimsuit. She draped a slender, tanned arm around him from behind.

"Mm. Morning, Jim," she twittered by his ear.

Kirk tilted up his face, grinning brightly at her. "Morning, Gaila."

Gaila sauntered to a reclining chair and poured herself into it before pulling out a sketchbook from underneath it.

"Niece?" Leonard deadpanned.

Kirk waggled his eyebrows. "She's an art student."

"Unbelievable," Leonard muttered under his breath. Hopefully, Kirk wouldn't offer her tutoring lessons. He swatted towards Kirk's direction. "Go get dressed." He shook his head, glaring after Kirk as he padded inside. Kirk walked around like he'd been living here his whole life. The guy was infinitely adaptable.

"There's coffee, orange juice and these wonderful little chocolate muffins over on the side board there." Gaila called over giving him a sweet if somewhat amused glance.

"Thanks," Leonard said as he settled into one of the padded iron-wrought chairs. He squinted as the older gentleman he'd seen before was being dragged in by a young beagle on a leash.

"Gaila," the man grumbled as the dog barked excitedly when it sighted Leonard, "would you—slow down you mangy ill bred—get him inside before he forgets he can't fly?"

Gaila laughed. She caught the brown and white dog and pressed her face into its short fur.

"Sure thing, Uncle Chris. Come on, puppy," Gaila cooed as she hugged the dog to her, "let's get you away from Mr. Grumpy."

"I'm not grumpy," the man grumbled. "Damn thing peed on my Recamier. I'm sending Archer the bill." He pretended to shake his cane at the direction of the dog before turning back to Leonard. He stood there, his blue eyes intense and calculating before he smiled briefly and offered his hand.

"Christopher Pike."

Leonard accepted the hand. "Leonard McCoy."

Pike nodded before he eased himself into his seat. He raised an eyebrow at Leonard before pouring two cups of coffee out of a tall metallic kettle Leonard suspected wasn't stainless steel. He leaned into the chair and watched Leonard take the first sip.

The burst of bitter yet smooth brew left no aftertaste on his tongue. It didn't need to be drowned in milk or sugar. Leonard took another sip, shaking his head as he set the cup down. "It's perfect," he conceded. "Even the freaking coffee's perfect."

Pike chuckled.

Leonard's jaw worked as he considered Pike. "That's not jewelry on his ankle, you know."

"I didn't think it was," Pike returned easily.

"You know what it means then?"

"He's a felon." Pike leaned forward into his cane. "But Agent McCoy," Pike whispered conspiratorially, his mouth twisted into a secretive curve, "then again so was my father."

And for the third time that morning, Leonard was speechless.

--

"Stop playing with the hat."

Jim eyed McCoy next to him, his fingers still running across the fedora. He smiled idly to himself as he studied the black hat, brushed off dust from the broad tie band and adjusted the roll of the brim. He twirled the fedora and flipped it onto his head. He showed it off to McCoy with a grin.

"You look ridiculous."

The smile dropped. Looked like McCoy was just as much fun as he had been the last time they'd ridden in a car together years ago. Course that time there had been handcuffs involved. "And you should look at the road," Jim pointed out when McCoy frowned over to him for the third time.

"Aren't you a bit old for Halloween?"

Jim stared at McCoy, aghast. He thought the clueless clerk was bad. He indicated the slim cut of the dark navy jacket. "This is classic Rat Pack. This is a Devore."

"Oh." McCoy cast his eyes skyward. "Sorry, Dino."

Jim sniffed. He tucked his tie ends back into his jacket. He drummed his fingers on the armrest, going into a rendition of Bach's suite in C minor but that lost its charm before they even crossed the Williamsburg Bridge. Jim checked next to him but McCoy wasn't looking like he was in the mood for any conversation except to tell him his Miranda rights.

Sam usually let Jim rattle on, filling the car with theories, scenarios and all the 'Wouldn't it be funny if we…' chatter Jim could think of. It made sitting still bearable, made the cacophony in his brain quiet. Here though, the drone of the car engine, the fact McCoy didn't even like turning on the radio, made his skin itch.

After having gone through all the suites in the entire scale, Jim flipped down the sun visor. He flashed a smile at its tiny mirror. He tried another hat flip. He silently cheered when it landed on his head. Jim tilted the brim over his eyes.

A hand blindly reached out for the hat.

"Hey!"

"Would you stop with the hat?"

"Watch the road!" Jim yelped when McCoy swerved into the next lane without signaling. Jim grabbed onto his hat and pulled it to his lap. He gave McCoy a wary look. The agent stared hard at the road before him, his mouth pursed.

"You're upset!" Jim realized. "Look, you tell me which rule you think I broke and I will thumb it back to prison myself."

McCoy set his jaw. He curled and uncurled his hands on the steering wheel. He glanced over at Jim's face eyes narrowing again at the shiner. "What do you know about that guy really?" McCoy grumbled.

"You said if I found a place—"

"I know what I said!" McCoy snapped. "He says his father's a felon. He's probably dangerous. And yes, okay, maybe it was a rat infested hell hole, and you probably deserve some place better which the government can't afford, but you weren't supposed to interpret it as to con your way into…into Buckingham palace!"

"I didn't con anyone," Jim said tersely. Jim slumped back into his seat. "He offered."

McCoy scoffed.

"I told him about the deal; told him the truth about the seven hundred and he said he had a spare guest room."

"The truth?" McCoy barked out a harsh laugh. He was on a roll and looked like he couldn't stop himself. Chris must have told McCoy the truth about Jim's altercation with the 'local color' that had started their friendship. "Well, that's a new one. You guys twist the truth around until they sound like fairy tales."

Jim ground his teeth. But as McCoy's words sank in, he glanced over.

"You guys?"

Saying nothing, McCoy narrowed his eyes and kept his gaze resolutely on the highway.

"You know," Jim said carefully, "I always had the feeling you coming after me back then was personal. Three years is a pretty long time." Jim shrugged. "Flattering, sure, but bordering on obsessive."

"You're not that special," McCoy muttered. "It's taking me just as long to find the Dutchman."

Jim considered McCoy and the stiff shoulders. "True… you really don't like us, do you?"

"I'm a federal agent for white collar crimes. I'm not supposed to like you."

"But you were finishing up your residency as a doctor before that," Jim recalled. "Going from a lab coat to a trench coat is a bit of a stretch." He absently brushed fingers along the upturned brim. Jim made a face."It couldn't be for the pay."

"That's all this sort of thing comes down to for you, huh?" McCoy grated out. "Money?"

Jim scowled. Money was good, needed, important for getting things, but sometimes, a lot of the time, it was more about the thrill of succeeding at something. Something nobody was supposed to be able to do. Eddy had understood. Sometimes.

"Seriously, Jim. You are too smart to think you can get away with this crap forever. Grow up already."

"What is your problem?" he snapped heatedly.

A muscle in McCoy's jaw flexed. "My problem is most people work hard, they do their job well and they don't expect a ten million dollar view of Manhattan with a young art student and espresso as a reward! And they know that if someone tries to hand it to them it's probably a bad idea."

Jim frowned at him. "Why?"

McCoy gave him a disbelieving stare but thankfully went back to his driving. "Why?" He took a deep breath. "Because nothing is free! If it looks like it's free then it's too good to be true and somewhere along the line someone is gonna wind up getting hurt. Some old lady gets offered a free ride at the airport by a nice young man and the next thing you know her luggage is stolen and she winds up with a concussion at St. Mary's which will give her headaches for the rest of her life. Some college co-ed is offered a boat load of money to pose for art pictures for some guy who sculpts, and she thinks this is way better than working grave yards at the coffee shop and the next thing she knows her naked body is all over the internet. Some old geezer offers you espresso and a penthouse dirt cheap and sure as I'm sitting here there's gonna be a catch!"

"I can find out where Chris buys his coffee—"

"It's not about the coffee!"

"Then what?" Jim exasperated. "Play by the rules and nobody will ever get hurt or ever die? Yeah, right." Tell that one to his dad. Nothing but a fiery death and a flag. Oh, and Frank as a replacement. Let's not forget that one.

McCoy gave him a look out of the corner of his eye misinterpreting his silence. "Christ, you really don't get it, do you?"

"What?" Jim repeated tightly.

"It's not about the coffee," McCoy sighed, deflating as if the conversation was physically tiring him. "This attitude of yours is what gets you into trouble. These something-for-nothing schemes are what got you locked up the last time."

Jim sank back into his seat and stared grimly out the windshield. He didn't get why McCoy was telling him all this. He didn't get why there were times McCoy acted like a man possessed or why he needed to constantly remind Jim why he went to prison. What did any of it matter to him? Jim turned to look at McCoy. The agent still had a pinched look on his face.

"I think it's some sort of Italian roast."

"It's not about the damn coffee!"



| Act 2 (3/4) |